


Near Mint

by lildogie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/pseuds/lildogie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one problem.<br/>(There's not only one problem.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near Mint

**Author's Note:**

> For specifics regarding the disturbing content, please mouseover the underlined text.

His cologne makes your nose itch. You want to sneeze or bite it off him, and the latter urge is stronger. His skin is cool, even where his pulse beats under your tongue. It bothers you, and you bite him half in punishment, half to feel the cold tingle against the tips of your fangs.

The broad hands sliding up your torso don’t falter. He presses your back against the wall, crowding you in like you’re a flight risk. A rounded shoulder pushes in beside your neck, muscled thighs on either side of yours.

You taste blood, feel it rise under his skin, almost ready to burst across your tongue, and part of you wants to press that little bit harder, feel it spill. He’s so focused on your belt, now, you don’t think it’d slow him down, and the thought of it floods your mouth with saliva, makes your tongue twinge with anticipated bitterness.

You stop short. You’re sure all blood colors taste the same, and you don’t want that copper on your tongue.

His fingers dig into your ass before your pants even reach your thighs. His breath is cool against your ear as he shoves them down, but it still mists on your skin, and you shudder. You shove at his chest, but the shape of it presses against your palms, and instead you squeeze, dig your fingers into the soft swell of his pectorals till the muscle resists you. Drag your fingertips down over his ribs, the ridges of his abdomen.

You’re not sure he notices your hands on him, but you’re not touching for his sake. He’s so perfect, the lines of him so obvious you don’t need to see him for that beauty to crawl along your arms like an itch that needs scratching. Your fingers draw shallow furrows over his sides, mapping his contours.

You hiss at him when cool fingers slide between your legs. Have some patience, have some restraint, fucking get me ready, first—only you are ready, and you claw him in your impatience to get the thick denim down over those narrow hips. It makes you angry how flawless he is. Every fold of fabric removed reveals new touches of a master’s brush. There’s not a stroke misplaced.

His fingers push inside you, and you’re fighting the both of you to get his jeans off before you lose control of your legs. You’re snarling, yanking inefficiently, stepping on the hems of your own pants and kicking to get them off. You want him naked. He has no business being clothed, ever. Not when the flow of him from shoulders to waist makes you liquid. But you don’t have the strength to push him all the way off you, and your patience won’t weather convincing him to take his shirt off. Besides, if you speak to him, he may answer, and the last thing you want from those lips is words.

You shudder hard at the temperature of his skin as you pull him between your bare legs. You hook a calf around his thigh, pull him to you. He’s latched onto your neck now, no teeth, just suction, and he has three fingers inside you, which is entirely too much bone. He pays no heed whatsoever to your pushing at his wrist, so you grab his bulge, and feel the way his body stiffens and tightens in response. The awkward fingers are withdrawn, and you guide his bulge between your thighs, bring the tip to your entrance.

Your hands are pushed aside, and only the sudden full press of his chest against yours, driving the air out of you, keeps you silent as he fills you in one stroke.

You can’t fill your lungs, or utter anything but shallow gasps as he flattens you between his broad chest and the wall over and over. He goes quickly from feeling cool to hot inside you, and you’re overflowing with heat, dripping down your thighs even as your lungs flutter in panic. Your claws sink into his ass, consuming the shape of it the way your nook devours his bulge, drawing him in along your nerves, his shape, his movement, his energy become impulse, lighting you up inside and wresting away even the little control you have left over your body. You should push him away, but you’re trying to pull him deeper, even as your spine arches and you jerk, trying to drag air past your compressed ribcage.

You gasp like a drowning victim when he eases back, and you’re sure it’s only because he wants room to move. He takes his weight off one hand and you grab it, shove it down to your thigh. He lifts it and you grasp him under the arms, dig your fingers into his shoulders, and jump to wrap your other leg around his waist. With gravity on your side, you can fall down over more of him. The sensory impression of him is all through you, like a live current.

You wrap your arms around his neck, squeeze him with your thighs, pull him into you with your ankles. You press your cheek into his hair, drag your tongue along the curve of his horn. He jerks inside you, swells, stretching you tighter. You continue, desperate, as you roll your hips down, getting his hair on your tongue when you miss.

He groans, deep and sweet, the sound vibrating against your chest. You contract around him. He starts to speak—You seize the hair at the back of his head and kiss him, bruising his lips and yours, push your tongue into his mouth. You won't listen to whatever human-flavored casteplay call and response he has in mind. You know he won't stop, or you might be forced to entertain it, but no. No, there are limits.

The muscles of his back are stark under your fingers, shifting under cool, damp skin as he lifts you, shoves you harder against the wall. You shudder and your hips buck, your spine arching. You slap a hand over his mouth. You don't want comments, just his movement inside you, his strength pitted against your warm and vulnerable body, his shape absorbed through your pores.

As soon as you can control your muscles again, you're rolling from shoulders to hips, arching as far from the wall as his grip will allow to force yourself down over his bulge. You keep your hand pressed tight over his mouth even as his fangs graze your palm. His groans vibrate against your skin.

Then he yanks your wrist away, slams it against the wall, and you're coming again, locking up around him, so tight he's fighting you to move, shoving your hips back so he can thrust into you again, sinking his teeth into the base of your throat, and you're riding pulse after pulse, muscles tight to snapping from holding on. You could go on forever, if he'd just keep moving, if you could keep yourself poised so the angle, the pressure is just right, but your shoulders, your thighs are burning, you're going to lose your grip.

The wave of cool inside you is a shock, reminding you that he's here, he's participating. You shudder again, cold moving through you like physical pressure, startling your grip loose. You get one last, faint pulse of orgasm, and then your coordination and concentration are too exhausted to keep it going.

He gets you over to his bed, and it's soft and warm, and when he pulls you against him, corded arms wrapping around your waist, your chest, you want to sink back into him, feel the shape of his pectorals pressed against your back, let him drape those long, cool legs around you. But he's going to talk, you know it—and soon enough it starts.

"Shut up," you groan. "Shut up, just be quiet."

"Aw, Kan—"

You twist in his arms and plant your hand over his mouth. You look at his neck instead of him. You want to bite it; the marks from earlier are gone. "Please, Cronus," you murmur. "Please just hush."

He chuckles, and the sound is delicious, and you want even more to bite him. You'd fuck him again right now if you had the energy. You imagine he thinks it's romantic, or you're shy, or who knows what else. You keep your hand there, and he lets you roll him onto his back, robbed by orgasm of his need to be dominant—or maybe it was only urgency.

He stays quiet for you as your lips slide down his neck, as you bite at the edges of his pectorals through grainy white cotton. He reaches for your waist, but when you shake your hips to throw off his hands, he lets them fall. You can hear his comments in your head, in his voice, and you push up his shirt and bite him at the bottom of his rib cage, let your lower teeth push where it feels like you could punch through right into his thoracic cavity. Your jaw quivers.

You slide back up and press both hands over his mouth, leaning on your elbows to look into his face for the first time since he pushed you up against the wall. His hair is fallen into his face and around his ears like it was planned. Looking at him is almost too much. You move one hand up to cover his eyes.

He makes a protesting sound behind your hand, and god, you think it's "Babe." You shake your shoulders when his hands land on you. They hang on, but don't exert any force.

"Hush," you say. Your thumb strokes under his chin, and down, where you can feel the bob of his throat. You press down harder over his lips as you shift your weight, rubbing your nook lazily over his bare stomach, marring those perfect lines with misplaced color. "Just hush."


End file.
